


Tend Your Love Like Gardens

by cablesscutie



Series: AU Please! [7]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Nymph!Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-03-30 23:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cablesscutie/pseuds/cablesscutie
Summary: “You’re...a mythical creature.  And you carry your soul around in a mason jar?”“Yes.  And, I mean, that’s most of it?  Like, part of it is back in New York with my mom so I can like...pop back there when I get homesick, but yeah, that’s pretty much it right there.  Straight chillin.”In which Kent Parson is a nymph, and his soul is a succulent.





	1. Chapter 1

Jack’s father sends him sour strings and a book on Greek myths in a care package the night before their first away game. All through the bus ride, Jack has his nose buried in the pages, blue and green and red candy twisting absently around his fingers and flopping out of his mouth. He keeps smacking his lips to get the sour crystals off, and they’re a distractingly bright pink. Kent cannot for the life of him look away.

It’s obvious. Of course it is, they’re crammed so close that their shoulders brush every time Jack turns a page. Jack doesn’t seem to mind though, so Kent keeps staring. He’s so focused on the book and Jack’s hands and Jack’s mouth but he almost misses when Jack addresses him, extending a hand with a few strips of candy.

“Do you want some?” he asks. Kent gapes. “Come on, don’t play like that. I know you’ve been trying to guilt trip me into sharing.”

“Oh, uh,” Kent takes the offered snack, skin snagging against Jack’s sugar-sticky fingers. “Thanks. You didn’t have to. I just - I was just...looking.” He can’t read how Jack interprets that, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, so Kent keeps glancing at Jack throughout the rest of the trip, and they suck on their candy in silence.

“Alright, pair up and come get your room keys,” the team manager, Andi, shouts over the rough housing and chirping going on in the hotel lobby.

“Wanna be my roadie-mate?” Kent asks, nudging Jack. 

“Oh, uh. Sure.” He seems surprised to have been asked, probably expecting to pair off with whoever got chosen last. For all that Jack is a phenomenal hockey player, he’s a damn awkward kid. That’s fine with Kent though. He just needs to unpack ASAP. He’s bushed.

They retrieve their room keys and follow their teammates up in the elevator. Some of the guys go to hang out in a couple of the connected rooms, but Jack seems content to just go hole up in their room, which Kent is grateful for. Extended travel never sits well with him. Not enough air, not enough sun, not enough space.

As soon as Jack tosses his duffel on the bed closest to the door, Kent heads for the window to pull the curtains open and let in the light. Then he slings his backpack off his shoulder and pulls out the mason jar with his plant nestled in pebbles and dirt. He sets it on the window sill to catch the sunlight, and gently reaches into the jar to jostle the leaves and brush the dirt off. It feels good, even more so than shaking his limbs out in the parking lot had, a satisfying loosening of something in his chest, allowing his lungs to expand further, his spine to stand straighter. He heads to the bathroom and fills one of the plastic cups with cold water. A few splashes go into the jar with the succulent, and he drinks the rest down, soothing his dry throat and washing out the taste of stale bus air.

“You...brought a plant? On a roadie?” Jack asks. He’s pulling out a t-shirt and clean boxers from his neatly-folded bag.

“Oh...right, yeah. Um…” Kent shifts his weight, looks up to the ceiling fan, down to his sneakers. He can do this. He can do this. He can -

“Are you - do you need me to go get somebody? I -”

“No!” Jack’s eyes widen, and he startles back a step. Kent takes a breath, and manages with more composure, “No, no. I’m fine, really. I just...there’s something you should probably know if we’re going to be roommates. Um. It’s kind of why I asked you, I just feel like you might be...more receptive? Than some of the others maybe?”

“Ooookayyyyyy…” Jack looks suspicious, the set of his shoulders tight like he’s bracing himself to take a check.

“I’m a nymph.” Jack blinked at him.

“Excuse me, you’re a _what_?”

“I’m a nymph. Like, in the myth books? That plant is like...my soul? I guess you would call it?”

“You’re...a mythical creature. And you carry your soul around in a mason jar?”

“Yes. And, I mean, that’s _most_ of it? Like, part of it is back in New York with my mom so I can like...pop back there when I get homesick, but yeah, that’s pretty much it right there. Straight chillin.” He huffs a laugh. Jack still looks kind of freaked out, but not like he thinks Kent is out of his mind. More like Kent has just tipped his world upside down and inside out by presenting himself as a magical being. “So...what’re ya thinking over there?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“I had been expecting you to say you’re gay, so this is a bit of a mindfuck.” And that’s as good an invitation as any to get absolutely everything out there, and Jack doesn’t seem like he has a problem with the idea so...Kent decides to go for broke.

“Well...if it makes you feel better, a lot of nymphs are pansexual, me being one of them, so...you’re not _totally_ wrong?” Jack laughs a little hysterically. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I mean...Cup magic is a thing, right? Or at least legends of it? So...this isn’t...too impossible to believe?”

“Alright, good. Wouldn’t want to break our starting center before game day.”

“Right,” Jack’s laugh sounds a little more natural this time around. He reaches into his bag again and retrieves his toothbrush and toothpaste. On his way to the bathroom, the smile falls off his face, and Kent can see him frowning in the mirror as he brushes, looking at his own reflection thoughtfully. Jack spits, closes the door, and a moment later, Kent hears the toilet flushing and the tap running. When Jack returns and starts turning down his bed, Kent hasn’t moved an inch, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Jack looks up from setting the bedside alarm and meets Kent’s eyes again.

“I’m bisexual.” It’s said quietly, but Jack’s expression begets no questioning. Kent feels as though he understands what is happening between them now. An exchange. An unburdening. Each of them has entrusted the other with a secret that can never be spoken outside this hotel room, but in this exchange they have each gained a confidant. 


	2. Chapter 2

They don’t talk about it for almost the whole season, games flying by, school work piling up. The year ends and begins again without much fanfare. After the ancient greeks, Jack gets a book about feudal France, followed by a biography of Che Guevara, then an overview of naval history. The stack of books from Bob grows next to Jack’s bed, jumping randomly across time until it seems to stabilize at World War Two. Kent occasionally disappears for hours at a time, even when they’re on roadies. When the team starts getting strung out and sore near playoffs, Kent stops even staying in the hotel room overnight. 

He waits for Jack to fall asleep, lies in bed next to the windows and stares at the ceiling of whatever generic hotel they’re being put up in and counts breaths until they’re slow and even. Once he’s sure Jack won’t wake up in the night, he heads to his mother’s house and crawls into his familiar twin bed. The sheets always smell like fabric softener and a hint of perfume, and all of the bedding is worn incredibly soft from years of use. Kent leaves his blinds open so that the rising sun will wake him in time to get back to Jack. In previous years, he’d slept in the stuffy hotel rooms for fear of his roommate finding him missing, or oversleeping and missing the bus, his plant left behind to be thrown out by housekeeping. Jack’s quiet friendship is reassuring enough for Kent to leave his plant alone.

Kent also finds that he likes to watch Jack read. After games, they’ll both be so keyed up, and Jack tries to channel some of that extra passion into history. Once, Kent asks to borrow one of the books, just to see if he can access whatever magic it holds over his friend. He makes it five pages in before passing out sitting in a chair, pages flopping open on his lap. 

“Jesus fuck, Jack! How do you handle that? It’s like a fucking Ambien,” he asks when Jack wakes him, chuckling and taking his book back without needing to ask if Kent wants to finish.

“It’s fascinating!” he defends. “Everything is connected like dominoes - you can trace the news back to one argument thousands of years ago. How could you find that boring?”

“Like this.” Kent flops his head back and lets out an exaggerated snorting snore. Jack smacks him in the chest with the book.

“Drama queen,” he chirps. Kent leaps up from the chair and lunges for Jack, who ducks out of the way, tossing the book onto his bed. They chase each other around the little room for a couple minutes, barrel rolling over beds and faking each other out. Neither of them can really tell who’s chasing who after a couple of laps around, but Jack is ultimately the one who tackles Kent to the ground and pulls him into a headlock, knocking his snapback off so he can dig his knuckles into the top of Kent’s skull.

He’s laughing too hard to keep his grip on Kent, who is able to wrestle his way out of the hold quite easily. Jack scoops the hat from the ground and pulls it down onto his head, turning the brim around and smirking at Kent in that playful, private way that always makes his heart skip, always makes his eyes catch on the plush looking stretch of Jack’s lips, lets him think, _“maybe.”_

But then Jack pushes himself up off the floor and excuses himself to take a shower, and the moment is broken. Kent digs his Game Boy out of his duffle and tools around on Pokemon while he waits, running aimlessly around the Kanto region in search of more grass-types for his ultimate gym lineup. Jack stays in for so long that Kent actually starts looking for Weedles to fight, riding around in circles on his bicycle. When Jack finally emerges, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Kent flips the game closed.

“What took you so long? Shaving your legs for me?” he teases. Jack rolls his eyes.

“A bit presumptuous of you, eh?” he ruffles his hair with the towel around his neck before discarding it on the back of a chair. “I did it to skate faster.” Jack _winks_ and Kent’s heart is going to give out. He grabs his pajamas and heads for the bathroom instead, hoping he can recover himself in privacy.

Thank god for the endless hot water in hotel showers. Kent stands beneath the pelting streams, rolling the knots out of his shoulders and smelling the lingering aroma of Jack’s body wash. He can feel, creeping in from the edges of his mind, that dangerous line of thinking that springs up every time he manages to get Jack happy and close to him. Rather than go down that rabbit-hole with the subject of his fantasies on the other side of the door, he uncaps the obnoxiously over-perfumed hotel shampoo and works a huge glob into his hair. Extra suds slide down his spine, and he steps back under the spray, lest he close his eyes and mistake them for hands. After perfunctorily washing off the rest of the game day grossness and alleviating the old tightness that locker room soap gives his skin, Kent dresses, brushes his teeth, and returns to Jack. 

For once, Jack is passing on his nightly reading. Usually, Kent is forced to contend with Jack rumpled and soft-looking, dangerously inviting just a scant few feet away. Strangely, he’s lying on top of the covers, frowning up at the ceiling. Kent crawls into his own bed, unwilling to interrupt Jack in one of his thoughtful moods. They lay in silence for a few moments before Jack speaks up.

“How old are you?” It doesn’t sound accusatory, as he’s grown used to the question being asked. 

“Um...seventeen? Same as I was yesterday? Why?”

“No, no. I mean...really.”

“I’m...really seventeen. Are you okay?”

“I just...aren’t nymphs supposed to be...immortal?”

“Ah, geez. Cool your history jets, Zimms. My mom is mortal, so: normal life-span, normal aging. You want war stories, you’re gonna have to watch a documentary.”

“That’s not where I was going!”

“Oh it so was, don’t lie.”

“Was not!”

“Yeah sure, you fuckin nerd.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Kenny. I hardly trust you to analyze a power play, much less a battle.” He falls silent again, but by this point, Kent is attuned enough to Jack’s way of thinking to know the difference between a conversation abruptly ending and when Jack is trying to collect his words. Sure enough, barely a minute passes before Jack speaks quietly. “I’m glad you’re only seventeen.” Kent wants to prod a little. Always has the urge to jump in with questions when Zimms starts saying weird shit. And Zimms says weird shit a lot. He stays patient though, and after another few breaths pass, he explains, “Living forever just...always sounded really sad. Lonely. I didn’t want to think that you were doomed to keep losing people like that.” They don’t talk about it for almost the whole season, games flying by, school work piling up. The year ends and begins again without much fanfare. After the ancient greeks, Jack gets a book about feudal France, followed by a biography of Che Guevara, then an overview of naval history. The stack of books from Bob grows next to Jack’s bed, jumping randomly across time until it seems to stabilize at World War Two. Kent occasionally disappears for hours at a time, even when they’re on roadies. When the team starts getting strung out and sore near playoffs, Kent stops even staying in the hotel room overnight. 

He waits for Jack to fall asleep, lies in bed next to the windows and stares at the ceiling of whatever generic hotel they’re being put up in and counts breaths until they’re slow and even. Once he’s sure Jack won’t wake up in the night, he heads to his mother’s house and crawls into his familiar twin bed. The sheets always smell like fabric softener and a hint of perfume, and all of the bedding is worn incredibly soft from years of use. Kent leaves his blinds open so that the rising sun will wake him in time to get back to Jack. In previous years, he’d slept in the stuffy hotel rooms for fear of his roommate finding him missing, or oversleeping and missing the bus, his plant left behind to be thrown out by housekeeping. Jack’s quiet friendship is reassuring enough for Kent to leave his plant alone.


	3. Chapter 3

“So…” Jack trails off, tossing an apple to himself over and over again as he lies on Kent’s bed at his billet house. Kent waits. It sometimes takes a while, but Jack always finds his words eventually. “When you told me. Um. About your plant. You said...that you can go back and visit your mom? Because this is only most of you?”

“Yeah?”

“How is that possible?” Kent flashes a grin at Jack, the same one that gets him seated in the front row of every classroom. 

“Just watch.” He fills a glass from his nightstand with water from the bathroom tap and sets it on the windowsill beside the mason jar. Pulls a pair of scissors from his desk. Reaching into the jar, he holds one of the succulent’s leaves steady, braces himself, and snips it off. A wave of nausea washes over him at the severing of part of his soul, but Kent breathes through it and pokes a couple of toothpicks into either side of the leaf. He rests them across the lip of the glass, allowing the leaf to dip into the water in the glass. When Kent turns around to say “ta-da!” he finds that Jack is watching intently, naked wonder on his face. They stare at each other in silence for a moment as Jack collects his thoughts, and Kent gives him the space to process it all.

“That’s...My mom does that with herbs. You - You can do that with your soul-plant-thing?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Like, it’s still gotta be watered and stuff if I’m gonna be able to do the whole teleporting deal but...that’s the deal.”

“But...if you can break off a little piece, why do you take the whole thing on roadies?” Kent flops down on the bed beside Jack.

“Cuz even though I can use pieces for like having lunch with my mom, this thing is still most of my soul. And my billet family doesn’t know about...the whole magic deal. So if, say the house was to burn down while we were out of town, nobody’s gonna grab the fucking house plants, ya feel?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And like, I’d _live_ because there’d still be the piece with me and the piece at my mom’s house, but like...you try having most of your soul torched and see how you feel? Snipping a leaf makes me feel kinda nauseous, so that…”

“Would really fucking suck.”

“Chyeah.” They fall silent for a few minutes. Kent closes his eyes and allows himself to drift a little, lulled by the soft scrape and smack of Jack tossing and catching the apple again. 

He cracks an eye when Jack shifts his weight and sits up, cradling the apple in his palm. “What’s up?”

“How often do you have to water it? Your plant.”

“‘Bout once a week. Pretty much I just kinda feel the soil and if it’s dry, I fix that. Or if I start getting really tired for no reason, it means I went too long.” Kent pushes himself to sitting and rolls onto his feet, turning to extend a hand to Jack. “Come on.” Jack hooks his fingers with Kent’s and allows himself to be hauled to his feet and led to the window where the two succulents were sitting. Keeping hold of Jack’s hand, Kent shoves both their fingers into the opening of the mason jar. He presses the pads of Jack’s fingertips gently against the top layer of soil, letting him feel the dampness. It’s a rush, having Jack literally prodding around Kent’s soul, a startling intimacy that he’d never thought to want. They’re close enough for Kent to feel his slow breath against his cheek. Jack’s eyes are fixed intently on their fingers tangled together in the jar. “I just watered this morning, so this is pretty much ideal.” One of Jack’s fingers accidentally brushes a shallow root and a warm tingling wave washes over him. Kent sucks in a sharp breath.

“Sorry!” Jack pulls his hand out of the jar, and Kent can see him panicking, inspecting for damage.

“No! No, don’t be sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, no. That - That was definitely not - not a...bad feeling.”

“Oh?” Kent shifts closer, and Jack seems to notice his flushed cheeks and the slightly dazed look in his eyes. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

When Jack kisses him, both of their lips are chapped from ice rink air and his tongue has a biting hint of granny smith. Kent can feel the slight grit of potting soil against his skin as Jack’s fingers hold his jaw, and he thinks those hands might be a nice place to grow roots.


End file.
